


The Soldier Who Challenged Fate

by Hana_Noiazei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: DenNor, F/M, Fantasy, Near character death, fairytale, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hana_Noiazei/pseuds/Hana_Noiazei
Summary: Two misfits, as vulnerable as they are to whatever life has in store for them, remain strong for each other.
Relationships: Denmark/Female Norway (Hetalia), Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Kudos: 13





	The Soldier Who Challenged Fate

There was once only one tin soldier. He had a brilliant crimson uniform, with bleached twine as his sashes and a little scrap of steel tipping his tiny bayonet. His eyes were painted the most brilliant blue, and his flyaway locks were coloured the shade of wheat. He was a fine creation, or he would have been, if not for his lack of leg. The tin was short when the toymaker made him, so he only had one leg to stand on.

From the toymaker’s workshop, the tin soldier went home in a little wooden box, for he was to be an Advent present. He found himself gifted to a young boy, who eagerly pushed off the cover of his box and picked up the tin soldier, exclaiming, “he only has one leg!”

For a moment, the poor little tin soldier thought he was going to be thrown out the window, into the cold, cold city, but the boy did none of that. Instead, he set the tin soldier down on his play-room table, and began to admire him. “You look very special,” the boy said. “I shall give you a name.”

Though he could not speak in front of the boy, the tin soldier liked that idea. He was christened “Henrik”, which in his opinion was a lovely name. The little boy clapped his hands with delight, waved Henrik good-bye and left the play-room.

With no more humans around, all the toys of the play-room cane to life. From their little corners and boxes, they all saw the new arrival — the handsome little tin soldier with only one leg. 

Now, if Henrik had had two legs, all the toys would have greeted him joyfully, and he would have made plenty of new friends. But he had one leg, so the toys began to laugh at him, for that was what they did to anybody different.

Poor Henrik was jeered at by all the playthings. The nutcracker clicked mockingly at him, the slate pencil squeaked insults on her slate. And worst of all, the snuffbox he was placed in front of popped open with a _clack!_ and a sneering bogey popped out, and told him cruelly, “tin soldier, you’d be best off burning in the hearth!”

With no intention to be anywhere near fires, nor to listen to the horrid toys and their words, Henrik limped away from his tittering tormentors on his solitary leg.

Across the large table he went, until he came across a vast castle, a grand thing made of cardboard. It was very pretty, but even prettier were the little ballerina figures inside. They had dresses sewn from scrap cloth, and golden hair made of old thread. Upon their dresses were lovely ribbon sashes, fastened with the shiniest little spangles. One of them, who stood at the very corner and away from her fellow dancers, didn’t look as charming as the rest. Her elegant face was marred by a stain of ink, right over her eyes. Just wait, though. She’s the most extraordinary of them all.

One by one, the ballerinas fluttered out of their castle, their dresses bouncing. The ink-stained one stumbled out last. She nearly fell down, and she would have, if not for Henrik’s being in front of her. He held her steady with his arms, and looked at her face. She indeed was very lovely, despite the ink blinding her. Henrik gazed at her lovingly, and noticed the little words stitched at the hem of her gown — they read “Linnea”.

Linnea fumbled, reaching out for Henrik’s shoulders. She placed her hands there, and Henrik set his hands around her waist. She lifted her leg up high, so it appeared that she, too, had only one leg. And all night they remained like that, holding each other as the fire crackled, keeping them warm and happy.

The sun rose and their silent vigil was over. Henrik meant to speak, and tell beautiful Linnea how he had fallen in love with her overnight, when the little boy ran into the play-room and snatched him up from the table. Henrik was carried away from the play-room and out of the house, into a cold December morning. ‘But that’s all right,’ he told himself. ‘I shall tell Linnea how I feel when I return.’

It turned out that the boy intended to take Henrik out with him for shopping, as Christmas was near and the family had yet to buy gifts. Henrik, with his painted blue eyes, surveyed the stores, the streets, the carriages — all of it, with wonder. It was all so strange and new to him, but it was nothing compared to what he felt toward Linnea. ‘If she were with me,’ he thought, ‘I could be in Hell, and I wouldn’t mind.’

But as the little boy and his family were running for a carriage, laden with bags holding their shopping, the boy fumbled, and Henrik fell from his hand — _plop!_ — onto a mound of snow.

In that alley, Henrik lay, surrounded by snow with his leg sticking up like a flagpost, helpless to the cold wind that knocked him out of the snow but sent him careening into a wall. If he were a real soldier, he would be terribly bruised by now.

It was just Henrik’s luck that a rat happened to be scuttling past, sniffing for crumbs along the cold, hard ground. He expected the rat, with its matted grey pelt and beady little eyes, to chew on him or steal him away as his prize, but thankfully the rat did not. Instead, she called for her friends, who all came crawling out of little hollows in the alley. To humans, it would be quite the disgusting sight, but Henrik found himself flooding with gratitude, for the rats hoisted him up and carried him upright, then toward a rushing gutter drain.

Henrik dropped right into the drain, on top of a little wooden box that bobbed up and down like a boat. Past the town he went, the gutter rushing around him all the while, and soon Henrik recognised the boy’s house - he was almost home! Though he was weak with cold, he braced himself to jump off the box and onto the pavement.

Oh, but things simply couldn’t be easy for Henrik. A crow came, shrieking something horrid, and snatched him right from the gutter! “What luck I have!” The crow screeched. “A handsome, shiny thing will be a fine present for my children!”

He could only watch as home faded farther and farther away, when suddenly there was a great caw from behind the crow. It was an eagle, who clearly wanted the crow for their Christmas dinner. In her panic the crow flapped her wings ever so quickly, and they beat powerfully, and Henrik fell from her claws, down, down, down to the ground below.

As he fell for the second time that day, he thought he heard the wind whistle,

“Tumble, tumble, O soldier bold,  
Thy death shall be loving and not an ounce cold.”

It was just his luck that Henrik landed in the boy’s garden, just as he was out playing. With great joy the boy scooped him up, brushing the snow and grime off his uniform, and into the house.

On the way to the play-room he saw a lovely Christmas tree, and inside the room the hearth was just being lighted. Henrik was set down quite near the fire, and there he saw, dancing all unaware of her surroundings — he couldn’t believe it! his Linnea was right in front of him, looking as beautiful as ever.

Once the coast was clear, he called out for her, limping forward despite his exhaustion. But she could not hear him, and twirled closer and closer to the fire. Her little cross-shaped spangle glinted in the fire’s light, as though it was about to melt off.

And before he could reach her, Linnea jumped right into the fire! It must’ve been the bogey’s doing.

Impulsively, Henrik leapt in with her, feeling the blazing agony of fire all around him. He found Linnea, her blinded eyes crumbling to ashes, among the coals, alight with ruthless tongues of flame. He could feel himself melting away, and it did hurt, but all the same he took Linnea into his arms, holding her against his chest, and stumbled out of the hearth.

Away from its heat, they allowed the winter chill to cool them down. When the scorching heat finally vanished from Henrik’s tin body, he realised with horror that one arm had been lost to the flames, and the brilliant paints that once adorned his uniform were as good as gone. He gazed upon Linnea, at the hollow where her eyes used to be, and the charred sash at the front of her dress, devoid of its spangle. Still, she was stunning. They were both terribly burnt, but none of that was of any significance. Outside, night fell, and the moonlight rested upon the embracing lovers — the tin soldier, unyielding to the cruel claws of fate; and his darling ballerina, stalwart and steadfast through all life’s challenges.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was based on Hans Christen Andersen's "The Steadfast Tin Soldier", published in 1838. The original story, contrary to this one, does not take place during Christmas, and both the tin soldier and the ballerina die in the end.


End file.
